


Every King Needs a King; Every Artist His Muse

by InTheShadows



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Artist Sherlock, M/M, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, big surprise there right, mainly about John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-15
Updated: 2016-08-15
Packaged: 2018-08-08 21:42:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7774777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InTheShadows/pseuds/InTheShadows
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has recently quit smoking once and for all - too much trouble. Needing something to do with his hands, he picks up one of his old hobbies, drawing. Or rather, he started drawing one thing in particular - John Watson. Not that John knows this of course.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Every King Needs a King; Every Artist His Muse

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Каждому королю нужен король, каждому художнику нужна муза (Every King Needs a King; Every Artist His Muse)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15031157) by [PulpFiction](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PulpFiction/pseuds/PulpFiction)



> From a prompt on ao3: Sherlock gives up smoking and starts taking up a new hobby: drawing pictures of John.  
> I'd tell you guys by who, but I seem to have misplaced it somehow. It might have been deleted actually. So if the author happens to read this and would like to raise your hand, I'll put your name here. If not, then enjoy or not. This is what my mind spawned in any case.  
> Title is a quote by Dulce Ruby. I edited it obviously. The original quote is: every king needs a queen; every artist his muse.  
> Fun fact: The part of about Vernet down below? It's true to cannon.  
> I now have a translation of this work in Russian by the awesome PulpFiction! Check it out.

Sherlock makes a small noise of dissatisfaction and carefully erases the line he just drew. He blows the bits of rubber away, instead of wiping them away and risk smearing the lead. Steadily he makes the line again, making it wider this time, less sharp. Yes. Much better. He continues on.

He is alone in the flat right now, which is why he is doing this in the first place. He can and has done it in his room, but right now the light is best in the living room at this time of day. He finishes the outline and starts to shade it in, still with the same care he showed before.

That Sherlock can draw – and draw well – is not, necessarily a secret. Not really. But it's something very few people know. It doesn't come up in conversation and he feels no need to advertise it. It is just something he is good at. One of those inborn talents. It doesn't rate anywhere near his deduction skills, which he is very proud of.

Mycroft knows of course. He did grow up with the git after all. He could have hardly hid it from him, even if he wanted to. Not that he did. Waste of effort.

Mrs Hudson knows. In fact, she has a few pieces framed in her flat. Not that anyone else knows that of course, but she was, and still is, delighted by them.

Lestrade knows because when Sherlock was coming off cocaine that was what he did constantly besides solve cases. And the DI had a way of hovering during that period, so. He was impressed with them. Encouraged him to do more once he figured out it helped him. Gave him something to do with his hands.

Which is why he is doing this now. He had let his hobby fade into the background even before John moved in with him. But he has recently given up smoking once and for all. It was becoming too much of a problem, with John nagging him whenever he caught him. He would rant about health risks and dangerous chemicals being ingested into ones body and blah, blah, blah. It was simply easier to give it up.

But now, he needs something to do with his hands instead. So last week he bought a cheap drawing pad, found his old tin of pencils and began to draw whenever he was alone. He hums to himself as he makes a final stroke and eyes it critically. Not quite. He makes some minute changes to the eyes. There, that's better.

On the page before him is a life like picture of one former Army Captain, Doctor John Hamish Watson, sipping a cup of tea.

Needless to say said doctor is unaware of his rekindling of his hobby. Sherlock cannot imagine the man being impressed that he is Sherlock's main inspiration right now. Another reason he had stopped. He had run out of inspiration. Oh yes, he could have easily gone out and sketched people on the street and various buildings or such. But that was boring. He did do some crime scenes, but only the ones that... inspired him, he supposes.

He hates to use such an inexact word, but sometimes the English language fails him and he is forced to sound sentimental or some rubbish. But there is some truth to it. He can draw any crime scene he chooses, but to really _want_ to draw one... Level of interest plays no part in it. Some of his sketches are from crimes that are barely threes. They have to catch his eye in a way only an artist can understand.

Before, when he was still dealing with withdraw, his pictures were... interesting. Disturbing Lestrade sometimes called them. Those really do look like they were the work of a madman. Sherlock's mind took him to many dark places during that time and he captured many of them on paper.

And some people gladly let him know it, as well. He made the fatal mistake of allowing Donovan to see them, when she was first starting out. It... did not go over well. Sherlock is still miffed about it. She was the one who insisted in the first place. It was hardly _his_ fault she couldn't handle them. Curiosity killed that cat and all that.

But now, ever since John moved in six months ago, Sherlock has felt compelled to draw again. He has resisted until now, with only a few to show for it. Sherlock cannot help himself though. Just like in everything else, John Watson is a puzzle. A riddle to solve. Usually Sherlock solves puzzles in less than a day. Sometimes much, much less. Not John though. John continues to baffle and intrigue Sherlock in the most delightful ways. It is no wonder Sherlock draws him so much.

And he does draw him frequently. If one were to flip through his sketches, they would see the majority of the pictures are of John, with a few of things he found aesthetically pleasing. So, in reality, it is much more accurate to say Sherlock has a hobby of drawing pictures of John, rather than just pictures.

Sherlock has also found it helps with certain... feelings. Feelings that the detective wishes would just go the bloody hell away. Useless things. All they do is clog his hard drive. They get in the way of his thought process by popping up at the most inconvenient times. Thoughts of how very lovely John's laugh sounds and how his lips would taste and just what his scar looks like and the ways his eyes sparkle sometimes and... Blah! Useless.

Sometimes, late at night, Sherlock regrets turning down John's flirtatious advantages. Because the man was flirting, that is for sure. But how was Sherlock suppose to know he would be so interesting? How was he to know that he would be so accepting?

How should he have known that John would _stay_?

No one stays. Not for long. Yes, there are a list of exceptions, but it is a very short list. He can count them off on one hand. Ninety nine percent of the people Sherlock comes in contact with are in some way, shape, or form repulsed by him eventually. Sooner, rather than later. So how was he to know that John would be part of that one percent?

So he told John he was married to his Work, just like he tells every other – rare, unobservant, idiotic – hopeful that tries. And John let it drop. He started dating other women. As if Sherlock can't deduce the man is bi. He moved on. Naturally it is months after the fact that Sherlock discovers that he wishes that the doctor hadn't. That Sherlock would still have a chance.

But he doesn't, so hence the drawing. Both because John makes an excellent muse and because of... _feelings_ . And John will never see these drawings because they make his... _feelings_ ...very clear. Sherlock refuses to chase away the only man who accepts him completely because of mere sentiment. What an absurd human emotion.

No, his talent is not technically a secret, but he has no plans on telling John about it. Ever.

 

***

 

It is a week later and both Sherlock and John are at a crime scene. Not a very interesting one, Sherlock had the case solved in ten minutes. But he hasn't left yet. John is throwing him questioning looks because normally he would have stormed away by now.

But Sherlock is lingering.

Lestrade is watching his face with a grin. When Sherlock's fingers give another involuntary twitch he comes over and stands next to him.

“Should we expect a new masterpiece soon?” he asks teasingly, but still interested. Of course Lestrade recognizes what he is doing. He witnessed it enough times.

Sherlock gives a firm nod, but not elaborating beyond that. He was still memorizing, making sure he captured what he would need to draw the scene.

John walks over then. “Alright?” He looks between the two of them.

“Yeah,” Lestrade reassures him, “Vernet over here is just making sure he has all the details he needs for his next creation. Make sure you bring it in when your done. It's been a while.” That said, he walks away, leaving the other two men alone.

“Vernet?” John questions.

“Famous French painter,” Sherlock absently tells him.

“I know that, you twit. I meant why was Greg calling you that.”

Sherlock turns and exits the scene, having all he needs. “He thinks he is being humorous. Vernet is a relative of mine,” he reveals.

“You paint?” John is clearly surprised.

“Draw,” Sherlock corrects him.

“Any good?” John grins.

“While I personally believe they are more amateur then professional, others appear impressed.”

“What? Not taking a chance to brag?” he asks in a teasing voice.

Sherlock shrugs. “It is a talent I have, but never something I have worked to develop. It is merely a hobby I indulge in occasionally. My mind is what I take pride in, you know that.”

“Yeah, but is it another talent. Or does it fall under 'transportation'?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes as he flags down a cab. “You are about as funny as Graham.”

“It's Greg you berk. You know that by now.”

The detective's only response was a slight twitch of his lips.

 

***

 

A couple of days later, John comes home to an empty flat. He hadn't received any texts from Sherlock, so John assumed he wasn't out on a case and decides to relax. As much as he likes living with Sherlock, the man is not restful. Some peace is welcome, every now and again.

So John makes himself a cuppa and sits down in his chair, intent to relish in the silence before Sherlock comes back. As he sips his drink, he thinks about the conversation they had a few days ago. John had no idea that Sherlock could draw. Not that that's too terribly surprising. There is so much that John does not know about his flatmate, even after all these months.

He knows nothing about his parents – if they are even still alive. He doesn't know about any other family. He has no idea if he has any other siblings. Hell, he wouldn't have even known about Mycroft if he didn't, ah... introduce... himself the way he did. He doesn't know where he went to school, if he majored anything, what his childhood was like, his hobbies... The point is, it would be easier for John to list what he did know of Sherlock than what he didn't.

So for John to learn of another one of Sherlock's skills isn't surprising. Nor is it surprising that John has never seen the man doing so. He can be intensely private when he wants to be.

“Yoo-hoo, John. Are you home?” Mrs Hudson asks as she comes up the stairs. “I've just pulled these from the oven and realized I made too many. Would you like some, dear?”

John smiles at his 'landlady not housekeeper'. By now even he has noticed she uses that excuse to mother them both. “That would be lovely. You know how I love your biscuits. Would you like to have a cuppa before you go back down?”

“Oh thank you. Give this hip a rest before I move again.”

Soon enough they are both situated with mugs and biscuits in hand.

“Did you know Sherlock draws?” John accidentally blurts out when a pause in the conversation comes.

“Oh yes dear, I did. Did he finally show you his sketches? Aren't they marvelous?”

“Ah, no he didn't. Greg asked about it the other day and it was the first I heard of it.”

“Oh that boy. He can be so shy sometimes.” Shy is not the word John would ever use, but he keeps quiet, letting her continue. “You have seen some of his work, you just don't know it. I have two of his pictures hanging up downstairs in the flat.”

“You mean the one with the two skeletons doing the tango and the, ah,” He clears his throat, “the one with the hell hounds?”

“Yes, those ones. He did the skeleton one right after he took on my case and the other one years later. Aren't they charming?”

“Oh yes, yes they are.” The skeleton one is anyway, in an odd Sherlockian way. The other one... Well, disturbing is the word John would use, not charming. He usually avoids looking at it too closely if he can help it. But he will admit that there is talent in both of those pictures.

“You should ask him to show you his sketch book sometimes. He has such talent. It's not only solving crimes he is good at.”

“Maybe I will.”

They talked for a while longer before Mrs Hudson left. “I have to go now. I'm meeting with Mrs Turner next door. I wouldn't expect Sherlock back anytime too soon. He ran out of here, all excited about some body part or another. Oh that boy is just not decent sometimes.”

“Ta Mrs Hudson. Have a good time.”

“You too, now. Enjoy the quiet while you can.”

John nods and smiles and does just that. But once he finishes the cuppa, instead of just continuing to sit in his chair, he decides to clean the flat up a bit. Not too much because then Sherlock will complain bitterly about organization systems and not being able to find anything and the importance of dust and... many other things John doesn't want to hear about.

So cleaning, but just enough for it to look like a hurricane didn't pass through. Even though that is exactly what his flatmate is – a force of nature. One John wouldn't trade for the world. It sometimes scares John how quickly attached he has become to Sherlock. He has never felt this deep of a connection to anyone. Like a hurricane he has been swept away in the force of Sherlock's personality.

But, none the less, he wouldn't trade it for the world. He can no longer imagine his life without the mad detective. He gave him a purpose again after he came back from Afghanistan and kept giving him a purpose each day. He might drive him crazy some days, but he still wouldn't change a thing. Or, maybe one, but that is not an option, so best forget about it.

As John picks up one particularly messy pile, something falls on the floor – a sketch book. It is obviously Sherlock's, a cheap book with a well worn cover. He picks it up and weighs it in his hand. He wonders why it is sitting out, but he assumes that this is where Sherlock happened to stash it until he came back. Mrs Hudson did say he left in a hurry after all.

John knows he shouldn't. Just because Sherlock is always invading John's privacy doesn't mean John has the right to do the same. On the other hand, it can hardly be a secret, now can it? It wasn't even very well hidden, so it can't be. Sherlock isn't that careless after all.

He opens the book and his breath catches. There, on the very first page, an amazingly lifelike sketch of John, typing on his laptop. The next page is of him making lunch. Standing at a crime scene. Page after page is filled with pictures of John. The longer John stares, the more amazed he feels. It's not just the talent behind it. It's the, dare he say, _feeling_ in them. The raw expression. Could it be...

At that moment, once again exhibiting his skill at timing, Sherlock barges in “John-” he starts excitedly before noticing what John has in his hand. He freezes.

“Sorry, I was cleaning and well...” he motions unnecessarily with his hand, “I found it. These are amazing, you really should be take more pride in them.”

Sherlock clears his throat. “Yes, well.” He looks like he doesn't know how to react. If he should be pleased or angry or embarrassed.

John sets it down and walks over to Sherlock before he can decide. He stops right in front of the detective. “Do you mean it?” he asks, knowing Sherlock will deduce what he is inquiring about.

“John...” Sherlock says, hesitantly, clearly trying to read the situation to know how to react.

“Do you?” he repeats.

He gives one sharp, brief nod.

John smiles. “Good,” he declares and reaches up to pull Sherlock's head down for a kiss.

Sherlock kisses back, lips twitching in a small smile. “Good,” he repeats and presses his lips to John's once again.

Very good indeed.

 

 


End file.
